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If he stopped making jejune moral judgments about his ancestors and tried to understand what made them tick instead, he might make less of a mess of his own times. History has become either a source of nostalgic reminiscence (“heritage”) or a chronicle of victimhood. More and more, we are projecting our own values on to those who lived in the past as though there can be no other way to live, or to think, than the way we live and think now. “Pearl Harbor” is strenuously respectful of contemporary sensitivities, sometimes at the cost of accuracy. Not twenty years when went away Just a boy He may never again come back to stay To delight and annoy Will what he has gained balance what he has lost? Knowing what not to learn from the past is more important than knowing what to learn.The fly sat upon the axle-tree of the chariot wheel and said “What a dust do I raise” – Michael Handel, “War, Strategy & Intelligence” He that will not apply new remedies must expect new evils; for time is the greatest innovator. Gone is the sense of carrying forward some great project, be it of national glory or social liberation. A compilation of her poetry, with a selection of related diary excerpts, edited by two grandchildren, has been published as вЂThe Casualties Were Small by Ambridge Books. But passion and party blind our eyes, and the light which experience gives us is a lantern on the stern which shines only on the waves behind. History is not the story of strangers, aliens from another realm; it is the story of us had we been born a little earlier. Is life not infinitely more interesting and enjoyable when one can stand in a great historic place or walk historic ground, and know something of what happened there and in whose footsteps you walk? Queerly enough, being honest about modern life involves acknowledging that television sets and share-option schemes are not an instant guarantee of spiritual worth. By and large “history”, when taken to a mass audience by a television documentary or a newspaper, is usually only a kind of fraud, in which viewers and readers are induced to take an interest by the promise that people in the past were “just like us”, comforted all the while by an unspoken assumption of their own innate superiority. Why would anyone wish to be provincial in time, any more than being tied down to one place through life, when the whole reach of the human drama is there to experience in some of the greatest books ever written. Perhaps the most tantalising sort of history is the kind that is just out of reach вЂ” the stories of peoples whose deeds and style of living helped to form our own world, but of whom we know almost nothing, because they left no written records. Readings of several poems and extracts can be heard on вЂ™The Casualties Were SmallвЂ™ вЂ“ on Deben Radio . They were caught up in the living moment exactly as we are, and with no more certainty of how things would turn out than we have. She is very proud of the service her family has given to their countries since the time of the American Revolution. Anyone interested in the life of country folk during the Second World War will find the interviews in this radio programme of interest.The war affected them in many ways: they even came under attack. I open the casement into his room So tidy and neat And the sun shines in and chases the gloom And the wind blows sweet Ready for him when, early or late He comes back home to the sea I hear the click of the garden gate But it is not he. History is memory; we have to remember what it is like to be a Roman, or a Jacobite or a Chartist or even вЂ” if we dare, and we should dare вЂ” a Nazi. I hear the click of the garden gate But it is not he He comes no more either early or late To his dinner or tea He is far away in an Air Force Camp Learning to fight (I wonder if his blankets are damp And if he sleeps well at night) The smell is a faint one of morning and pine trees, Of bracken and water, of woodland and stream, The sight is of rushes, of mill house and lime trees. Bodies, fearful now, will cringe and press Close to the heart of earth; That Hell will burst through Heaven, the wild, mad cry, A devilвЂ™s scream of terrifying mirth, As foul destruction thunders down the sky; A crashing, cataclysmic violence That shatters babies at their hour of birth, Dispassionately, age and innocence! 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